


In Your Hands

by Zillo



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Established Relationship, F/M, Knotting, Light Bondage, Marking, Mating, Omega Verse, Other, Rut, Smut, alpha Padmé, brief discussion of pregnancy, consent discussed, heat cycle, married, omega Anakin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 18:16:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15491805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zillo/pseuds/Zillo
Summary: In a rare occurrence, Anakin makes it home in time to go through a heat cycle with his wife.





	In Your Hands

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings** – Consent is discussed and implied to have been discussed in more depth previously, but this is an A/O fic with a number of the trappings that come with it. There is also a brief discussion of both female pregnancy and mpreg.  
>  **Notes** – In time, I hope this will part of a larger series. I've started writing the next couple of pieces, but they're a long way from being done.  
>  I own nothing.

Padmé’s been edgy and anxious for the last couple of hours without any real knowledge why. She’s snapped at Dormé for no reason, snarled at Bail over a perfectly reasonable request for information on a bill they’re working on and hasn’t been able to settle to any one task for more than five minutes at a time. Her skin is itching, the clothing she’d chosen this morning tugging and digging at her skin unpleasantly. She just wants to tear—

“My lady?” Dormé is fortunate not to have something heavy thrown at her. Padmé is all but ready to…but no, there’s a second frame behind her handmaiden, familiar and very welcome.

“Anakin,” she breathes.

He rubs the nape of his neck and looks at her with bright eyes through lowered lashes. “Alpha.” It’s his heat she can smell and it’s his heat—her chosen mate’s heat—that is setting off the rut she’s falling into. They’ve been in the same place too rarely; by this point in their relationship she should be more attuned to her body, to his body, but the war has kept them apart far too often.

“Get out,” she snaps to Dormé. Later, she’ll apologise. Later, when Padmé doesn’t have her mate to attend to.

And she’s across to Anakin before her handmaiden is even out of the room, dragging him into a rough kiss that starts heavy and quickly escalates. He lifts her and she winds her legs around his waist, providing delicious friction where her knot is starting to grow. He grinds into her and she can feel his own erection through his robes and her dress.

“Ani,” she says. He mumbles against her throat, too low to be made out, his lips teasing at the edge to her scent glands. Her back is pressed to the wall, which provides them both with good leverage, but they do need to press pause. Running her fingers through his hair distracts her for a moment, but she will not be distracted from her task and gives a sharp tug. “Anakin. Stop.”

Prior to him, her preference had been male alphas—no chance of a heat or rut to get in the way—and at times he does tend to mimic their behaviour more than his own designation’s. Yet, at her command he pauses, drawing back, pouting, a heady picture of denied want.

She loses her breath a little at what’s in front of her. Lips swollen, glistening from working her scent glands, parted in want. His pupils are twice their normal size, the blue of his irises nearly disappearing. And his smell—oh, stars, his _smell_ —

He whines and ducks in for another kiss. But she can’t allow that. She tugs at his hair and opens her throat, allowing those deep alpha instincts to take over to quell her insolent omega. “I said stop. Put me down.”

Without further hesitation, he all but drops her to her feet and keeps going until he is kneeling at her feet, face buried in her stomach. Lightly, she runs her fingers through his hair, hoping to soothe where she was rough. They stay that way until he is purring and his fingers are creeping up her legs under her skirts.

Well, she’s always liked his boldness.

But. There are steps they need go through before they can truly begin, and those steps exist for a reason; alphas take care of omegas for a reason. The first time they’d experienced a true heat and rut had been on her personal ship and they’d been caught off-guard and unprepared and as a result the entire ordeal had been particularly unpleasant and upsetting. She’d been positive he’d never let her touch him during heat again. But she’s done her research since that disaster and the last two times were much more pleasurable for both Anakin and Padmé.

She sweeps a hand down the side of his face and tucks it under his chin, lifting it so she can meet his eyes. He is unbelievably beautiful, her mate, she licks her lips, distracted from her goal, watching as his smile becomes wicked. A thumb brushes inside her upper thigh, just below her undergarments. She swallows her tongue momentarily too big for her mouth.

“Have you eaten?” Once the heat cycle begins in earnest, he won’t want much in the way of food, but if he hasn’t eaten recently it won’t be enough to sustain him.

“Yes.” The thumb ghosts across her underwear. Most alphas would consider it a challenge to drag an omega like Anakin under control, but Padmé likes this about him. She’s never wanted a mate who could be tamed.

“When?”

“Before I left the temple.” He presses his thumb a little more firmly and she bites her lips to quieten the moan building in her throat.

The answer is good enough for the time being. “Let me run you a bath.” She is clean enough, having bathed when she arrived home for the evening.

“Padmé…” he whines, mouth back to pouting, hand falling away.

“No.” On this, she will be firm. The clones are alphas, most Jedi are betas—and she can smell many on him, along with the scents of dozens of others he’s come in to contact with. His own scent overrides them all, of course, but they’re there. Plus, it will help prepare him, give himself a chance to ready his body for hers.

With one last pet, she breaks away and heads to the fresher, not having to look to know that he will follow. The room is already damp with steam and the scent of Padmé’s own oils and soaps hangs in the air. Thoughtfully, Dormé has already prepared this for them.

Padmé does not stay to watch him undress, certain she’d never be able to leave if she did. Instead, she returns to her bedroom, undressing, releasing her hair, and donning a loose robe that is vastly more comfortable than her clothes. She sighs as she shrugs into it, enjoying the smooth slide of the fabric and shivering when it brushes her knot, her toes curling into the thick carpet.

To distract herself she checks the bedding, but it is clean and smells only of detergent. There are hints of others lingering in the room, though—security and her handmaidens—so she turns the air purifier on high. The thermostat she turns to chill, as during heat even the perpetually cold Anakin finds himself too warm. Lastly, she hunts out a small chest from the depths of her wardrobe and sorts through it, putting aside soft leather straps, a couple of cloths, and lubricant.

Once she is as prepared for the next dozen or so hours as she can be, she returns to the bathroom. Anakin is in the tub when she enters, his head lolling back on the edge, eyes closed, lips parted, body shuddering slightly, water splashing at the sides of the bath. She knows the moment he senses her because he freezes, eyes snapping open, a guilty flush colouring his cheeks.

He clears his throat. “Sorry.” Many alphas don’t like anyone to touch their omega during heat, including the omega themselves.

Padmé shakes her head. “Please don’t stop on my account.” She sits beside him on the edge of the bath, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips. She can taste water and sweat and little else. She settles back to watch as he grips his own length with his flesh hand and starts to jerk off with smooth movements. 

He offers a quiet groan as his hips jerk, a small wave of water cresting and slapping at the edge of the bath. He relaxes and sinks down a bit as she runs her fingers through his hair. All she can smell is him. Briefly, she wishes she could bathe in that scent allow the whole galaxy to smell him on her. Lightly, she leans down and nuzzles his scent glands until he is whimpering and pliant.

Soon, though, her body is protesting. “Come on.” She stands, offering him her hand, pulling him out of the water. He stands, allowing her to dry him. She makes a production of her fingers slipping and touching him with feather-light brushes, no more than a hint of teasing. Once he’s dry, she takes him by the hand to lead him to the bedroom.

But he catches her at the waist, crowding her until she’s trapped between his frame pressed along her back and the wall to her front. It’s his turn to find her scent glands and work at them until she is wonderfully languid and weak-kneed. Once she is hanging limply in his arms he nips her, a sharp prick of pain that sets her body on fire and has her gasping his name.

As wonderfully aroused as he is, it takes a surprising amount of her alpha strength to break his hold and turn in his arms to kiss him properly. “Bedroom,” she gasps when they come up for air.

Inside, he wraps the robe closer around his frame and glares at her, gaze accusing. “It’s cold.”

She hums, standing on tiptoe to press another kiss to his lips. “Get into bed.” 

He shimmies out of the robe and is in bed a heartbeat later, making a point to gather the covers up to his neck. 

In her chest, she can feel her heart beating, drumming in her ribs, her blood is singing, her skin on fire. The bath has done its job, all she can smell in the purified air is him, the pheromones rolling off him—tantalising and sweet. By the Force, how could she have said she never wanted an omega, not when this one was close and so wonderful?

The same omega that’s half peeking, half glaring at her from under the covers. This is their bed, the same bed they’ve made love in dozens of times. The same one that they’ve used for two successful heats. She’d bought it, brand new, after their wedding. She hadn’t known much about omegas in those early days, far too little, but she’d known that much at least: to not claim him in a bed she’d shared with any other.

They’re bondmates, not simply a pair. As such she perches on the bed beside him, looking into the accusing eyes, pupils still blown wide with a desire that’ll last for hours yet. “Are you okay with what’s going to happen?”

His scowl darkens into genuine annoyance. “I’d be a lot more okay if you were in bed with me.”

But she has to ask. Every holo she’s watched has told her that a respectful alpha should ask. Despite current myths, omegas are capable of refusing mid-heat and even bound alphas are capable of forcing them into a situation they’re not comfortable with. 

She leans down to kiss him and his annoyance melts as he pushes into a sitting position to meet her. The kiss is messy and wet and ends with her kneeling on the bed, most of the robe falling aside, his hands seeking her bare skin.

With reluctance, she slides off the bed, despite his whining protest. She doesn’t go far, just far enough to shrug out of the robe completely, letting it fall to the floor, exposing body and arousal to the room—not that it’d been a secret.

His gaze travels down her frame, settling on her sex. Human males—males of most species in fact—outwardly differ little between the designations, the major differences being internal. Females, however, vary a lot depending on their designation. Padmé, as an alpha, has a cock that is hardening, and a knot that is swelling in anticipation of rutting—in addition to the same reproductive organs as an omega or female beta. 

Nevertheless, she is not quite ready for their joining, so she climbs into bed when he lifts the covers for her, stretching out beside him, slinging a leg over his and pulling him close, until they’re wrapped in each other, sharing a pillow and little to no space between them.

“Welcome home,” she says. The rush of hormones and tug of rut and heat have stolen all her niceties and she regrets that. He is her mate, her equal, not her toy and she’s glad to have him with her for far more than his body.

He grins at her. “I missed you.” He dips his head the slight distance to her mouth. The kiss starts as one of warmth and love but quickly melts into something more heated.

Padmé nudges at his shoulder. This angle is good for greeting her husband, not great for rutting her mate. He rolls over on to his back, tugging her with him until she is sprawled across his chest, not breaking their kiss. She hums happily and wriggles up, making him groan, as she takes complete control, straddling his chest and gradually retreating from the kiss.

His hands on her waist, he attempts to follow her retreat. But she’s not going to allow that. Taking his wrists, she twists them out and over his head, pressing them into the pillow on either side of his head, shifting her weight until she’s hovering over him, just a shade too far away. He strains against her, but she presses down, using her full weight to keep him in place.

Padmé is small for an alpha, narrow shoulders and narrower frame, while over a decade of training has left Anakin broader and more muscular than the average omega. Yet, if you removed the Force from the equation, Padmé would have the upper hand. For all this little tête-à-tête might be mostly play on their part, it’s not a complete act.

Keeping his hands in place, Padmé moves to concentrate her attention elsewhere. Her nose nudges at his chin and she presses kisses along his throat, before moving lower. Sensing her target her whines and bucks and she hears his teeth audibly click, while his throat bobs in a swallow.

On his shoulder is the mark where she claimed him during their first successful heat together and, again, in their second. She’s always been inordinately proud of herself for that mark, the place where she finally staked her claim on him, teeth sinking into flesh, drawing blood, the way he’d writhed and moaned under her. There’s a growl deep in her throat. He’d been beautiful then, is beautiful now. Her omega. Her mate.

To prove it, she presses an open-mouthed kiss to the mark, causing him to cry out. Pleased, she laps at the grooves and he finally breaks free of her grasp, one hand going to her waist, the other into her hair, cradling her to the mark. She smiles. “Good boy,” she says, but doesn’t know whether he picks up on the words or not, given how they’re muffled by his skin.

Using her free hands, she balances her weight and travels lower, pressing kisses as she goes, marvelling at taut skin across hard muscle. Briefly, she pictures what he might look like swollen with her child and wonders if he ever does the same for her. But children are not a discussion for this moment, so she drops an extra kiss to his belly and continues on the path to her goal.

He is erect, the excess of hormones flooding his system with a confusing mix of readiness. A little lower and his entrance is wet with slick and softening, preparing for her knot. Lightly, she traces the shape of his hole with a finger and he shudders, curling into a position that’s nearly seated. It is not her goal, though, not yet.

Anakin remains partially propped on one elbow, lips parted, eyes lowered, and she leans up and flicks her tongue at his tip, tasting the liquid beading there. His hand rises to tuck a lock of hair out of her eyes, she studies him while taking the tip in her mouth. 

His prosthetic tangles in her hair, but he doesn’t hold or try to guide. She hums around him and works her lips a little lower, then sliding them back to the tip, then pressing down, a little further this time. She likes to see how much of him she can take, her mouth circling his girth, loves to make his body squirm, while fluid leaks out of his holes and he starts to shake. Once the shaking starts, his hand falls away, he flops backwards and she knows it’s nearly done. Moments later he’s crying out and liquid, thick and salty, is spilling in her mouth.

Sitting, she wipes her mouth and licks her lips, swallowing all his pleasure as he watches her through heavily-lidded eyes. She sits for a moment, kneeling between his legs, looking over his sprawled form. He offers a lazy smile which gives her a jolt straight to her own hardening member; it won’t be long.

She clambers over him to give him a quick peck before she starts the final preparations. But his hands curve behind her back, dragging her closer as his tongue dives into her mouth, swiping into its depth, cleaning out traces of his own taste. She is distracted by the warmth of her willing mate and she gives into him, after all, if this is what he wants, it must surely be what she wants.

A hand creeps along her side and slips between them. But she is taken by the way he’s kissing her, not paying too much attention to what he’s doing until he manages to grip her length in that hand.

She breaks the kiss, a cry escaping; so nearly ready for she is, that it’s almost pain, despite his gentle touch. He runs his hand along her length with firm strokes, taking care to cup her knot when he reaches it. She gasps and her vision briefly goes blank as her eyes roll back in her head. Oh, he could bring her off, just from this, the air is heavy with a mix of their pheromones and her mate is wrapped around her.

Instead, she sits up and slaps his hand. “Stop that.” 

He grins, unrepentant.

“No more distractions.” Her will isn’t infinite. She is in a rut and as much as she wants to do this properly, as much as she knows what could happen if she doesn’t, if he keeps this up she may let his base instincts and hers catch the better of them.

Carefully, she climbs off him, ignoring his sulky expression at the loss of her closeness. She collects the straps, cloths and lubricant from where she’d left them earlier and trots to the bed to perch beside him. The lubricant and cloths she sets on the nightstand and the straps she unwinds.

They’re made of the most supple, lightweight leather she’s ever encountered, yet they’re nearly unbreakable—designed solely for the purpose with which Padmé and Anakin intend to use them.

He’s pouting at her, but he doesn’t fight as she lifts his flesh hand above his head and secures it to the bed frame. With care she checks the tightness and has him release the catch. Once she’s positive he won’t be able to hurt himself and that he can free himself, she straps the hand back in place. During her rut his mind will not be focussed enough to flick the catch, but as soon as she’s knotted him, he’ll be cogent enough to open the clasp with ease. The aim is not complete immobility, just control.

She pecks his lips. They’d done this once without restraints, ending with them both bruised, shaken and completely unsatisfied. She takes his metal hand to fasten it beside the other. She doesn’t like it when he tries to worm his way out of this step, his instincts trying to battle with hers, but they’ve had this discussion when rational, she made sure of it and he’s agreed. That first time her fright and injuries had upset him, far more than his own.

Once his hands are restrained, she’s careful to check the tension of the straps. No matter how hard he fights, they won’t break, but nor should they cause him injury. The clasp on the side is easily reachable, though, with either hand. While such a fine movement won't occur to him to during her rut, he'll be able to free himself the moment she's done.

“Good?” she asks.

He tests them, anchoring his weight on them. The bedframe creaks a little—it’ll break before the straps. “Good.” He confirms. “Please come here.”

Giving in, she obeys, coming to straddle his waist again, her erect member standing proudly out from her body, hard and swollen and ready for him. Reaching for the tube of lubricant, she flicks the lid open and proceeds to slick herself up while he watches. Her cock is as even more sensitive and as she massages the lube across her skin it starts to leak. Anakin licks his lips and she has an image of kneeling over him as he takes her in his mouth and does sinful things to her.

But it is not the time, they’ve waited long enough tonight. She shifts to kneel between his legs and slides one lubricated finger from the base of his length to his hole, teasing the lip, tentatively sliding the digit inside him. He is already wet and a little tight, perfect for a rutting alpha.

He groans faintly, but already his hips are jerking. She slides in a second finger, teasing him apart, as his juices drip over her knuckles. He should be soft enough for her, but she looks up at him, where he’s biting his lip, sweat starting to gather at his hairline.

“Ready?” she asks.

“Uh-huh.” He meets her gaze and she holds it. “Please,” he says.

His lips are swollen pink. She wants to kiss him, so she does, crawling up his body, touching as much skin as she can. His kiss is impatient as he tugs on the straps, arms twisting and straining, but he doesn’t attempt to actually break free.

Between them, she can feel his erection growing again and her own cock twitches with desire; from everything she’s read many alphas considered it a victory if their omega comes during knotting. He hasn’t yet, but this is only their third successful heat cycle—not that she thinks she can call it ‘successful’ until it’s over. As she passes, she gives him a quick few pumps, liking the way his hips lift off the bed.

If anything he’s wetter, and she can smell the heady scent of him filling the room, tantalising. One last time, she runs a finger around his rim, watching him shudder, capturing his gaze and bringing the finger to her mouth to suck it clean, making as many greedy noises as she can manage.

“Omega, you taste amazing.” She considers leaning forward and lapping at him, but decides to leave it for later—maybe she’ll see what they taste like together.

Groaning loudly, he goes limp in the restraints, flopping against the pillows, cock dripping more pre-come, fully erect. “Padmé, just…” he doesn’t complete the thought.

Carefully, she lines herself up, when she’d bedded alphas, she’d always bottomed, she’s only just becoming accustomed to topping. Hand on her cock, she braces her weight on his hip, to help keep him motionless and avoid any injury on either of their parts. If they had a heat frame it wouldn’t be a problem, as his limbs would be fully immobile until he released her knot and she was able to free him. Thus far, however, they’ve managed with just the straps and she understands his desire to not be held without chance of escape.

She guides herself into his opening and at this angle, she can watch the way he stretches to accommodate her most narrow point. Above her the restraints snap out from the bed frame and his stomach hollows with a sharp intake of breath, but other than that he doesn’t move. When she looks to him, his face is turned upwards, facing the ceiling. “You feel incredible,” she tells him. It’s a platitude, the kind of thing the holos tell you to say, but it’s also the truth, he has yet to take much of her in but the contraction and release of muscles is incredible.

Shifting her weight forward, she keeps her hand on his hip, pressing down, guiding herself further in, bracing her weight with the other hand. She watches his face, he’s biting his lip and she’s a little worried he’ll draw blood, but she doesn’t do more than continue the slow slide in, marvelling at the feeling of his tight, damp heat. The leather creaks as he twists his hands and starts to whimper. The further her cock sinks the thicker her girth and the more he’s forced to stretch.

As his erection is flagging a little, she takes the hand bracing his hip and wraps it around his length pumping, stopping only when they reach the base of her knot. She gives him a couple of seconds to adjust then pulls out, far faster than she’d entered him, almost to the end and thrusts forward. Out. In. Out. Separate motions, restraining the urge to fully rut, to force her knot into him. He needs to be better prepared for her size. He’s tight, so tight.

Both of her hands are cupping his hips, gripping hard enough to leave bruises, but she can’t pry her fingers open, not and keep this pace. Above her the creaking of leather has become constant, while at her side one of his legs draws up, a manoeuvre that provides her with a better angle, probably unintentionally. She’d reassure him, but if she has to open her mouth she might just scream her frustration.

On this stroke, she doesn’t pull up quite as sharply and her knot pushes part of the way in. His back arches and his throat gives a strangled cry. She pulls out again, feeling him slip over edge of her knot with an almost painful bliss, her breathing ragged. Once she is free of him, she is left bereft so without hesitation she thrusts in, with more speed and fluidity than she has so far. All at once, it’s too much.

A cry of victory is ripped from her throat and the rut begins in earnest. Distantly, she is aware of his struggle underneath her, the instinctive desire to escape her knot, but her own instincts care very little, bruising grasp on his hips keeping his pelvis stationary enough for her rut’s needs. At some point he shouts out, his upper body partially lifting off the bed, but she pays no attention, focussing on the all-consuming need to thrust, to dominate, to fill him completely.

Her world goes white-hot as his body locks into place around hers. She screams out her final triumph and with long-cultivated instincts strikes out to sink her teeth into his flesh, right over her original bite mark.

She is heavy and full and somehow weightless. Her limbs are no longer under her control and she is flopped forward on him, while she can’t seem to focus her eyes. The room smells like him, flooding out anything else. She can taste him, his skin and pheromones on her lips. The only sound she can hear is his ragged breathing. It’s him, all him. Her omega.

Before she has complete control of her body she feels him shift, hears a soft ‘click’ as he undoes the clasps on the restraints and then they’re moving, rolling to their sides and she is encased in him. Her knot buried deep inside him, one of his legs slung over her, his arms drawing her closer.

As she returns to herself, she discovers a sticky dampness between them.

“Sorry,” he says as she grimaces. “I guess, done right, it really is pretty good.” Despite the way his eyes are heavily-lidded and his voice is starting to slur, he manages to reach around her to the nightstand for one of the cloths. She takes it as he offers a jaw-popping yawn, body succumbing to the ordeal she’s just put him through, mingling with the pheromones her body generates to soothe his. By the time she’s done cleaning them as best she can, he’s already asleep.

Slowly, she slides her hand between them, brushing at their joining, gathering a few drops of the moisture gathered there. A part of her wishes he was awake to see her taste them, but another part of her is embarrassed at giving in to this one primal urge. She touches her fingertips to her lips and cautiously swipes at them with her tongue, this is their joining. Humming happily, she relaxes and curls into him as closely as she can.

She’s a little thirsty but can’t do much about it and is at loathe to wake Anakin. He needs to sleep while he can, soon enough his body will release hers, they’ll have an hour or two respite and then the process will resume and likely reoccur at least once more after that.

Finally, though, it doesn’t take her long to drift off, her cock comfortably sheathed in him

* * *

She wakes as his muscles go slack around her spent knot. She slides out of him, feeling a rush of liquid follow: the remains of their joining. He doesn’t wake, rolling over to lie on his back, breathing deeply.

She is naked, sticky and sore, longing for a shower. Climbing out of bed is a struggle and walking to the fresher brings little relief, her aching muscles only cooperating by share will on her part. In the fresher, she sets the water heating, and steps under the spray, feeling the heat and pressure pound away her discomforts.

Idly, she braces herself against the wall of the shower and slides a hand between her legs to find her clit. Experience and the holos have taught her this is the best way to ease some of the aches, and she strokes the small nub hidden under her cock, bringing herself to a quick, muted orgasm.

By the time she’s finished in the shower, her body’s equilibrium has been mostly restored and she’s humming as she dries herself off and wraps her robe about herself. Dressing fully would be a waste of time, it won’t be too long and Anakin will wake and not much after that the next wave of his heat will be cresting. But she pads out into the kitchen in search of food, she’s hungry but he won’t be, their bodies’ natural reactions very different to the rigours of knotting.

Dormé, bless her, has left a couple of prepared dishes for her, sweets and sliced fruit for Anakin. Padmé retrieves a plate and a glass, filling them before heading to the living area to nestle herself between the stuffed cushion on the couch and look out into the Coruscant night. The stars are not visible, of course, but there’s plenty of lights shining throughout the dark city. For a moment, she pictures them on Naboo, perhaps at Varykino, no fear of interruption, no Senate, no Jedi, just them.

She is about halfway through her meal when she must doze off, lulled by the night and the awareness her omega is close at hand. But no time seems to pass when she wakes to find a presence beside her and a hand gently brushing her hair from her face. 

“Ani?” her senses feel dulled, she can smell he’s still in heat but doesn’t feel any urgency to that knowledge. She fights to wake herself, if he’s awake, they won’t have long. She levers up on her elbows, feeling groggy and cross, but is pleased to see he’s completely naked. Heat comes with that unexpected benefit: her husband, usually covered from neck to toe in layers of Jedi robes, is too warm for much in the way of clothing.

“Easy.” Anakin helps her sit up and doesn’t complain when she rearranges herself against his shoulder. There’s a second plate sitting on the caff table, one with several of the treats left for him piled on it. She’s impressed that he was cognizant enough to prepare it, even if he’s not paying it any attention now.

She laces her fingers through his and sighs heavily, he presses a kiss to her forehead and they just sit, enjoying the peace.

“You should finish that,” he indicates her half-finished plate of food.

Turning her head, she kisses his cheek. “I’ll take a bite for every one you do.”

Anakin eyes his plate warily, there isn’t much there, but it’s probably intimidating to an omega in heat. His gaze drifts to her plate and then back to her. “Deal.”

He insists on feeding her, but faithfully takes a piece of fruit from his plate in turn. For a short while, at least, though once he starts feeding her those as well, she decides not to make an issue, instead reclaiming her plate and quickly finishing her meal.

Finally, she melts into him. “How long?”

“A little while yet, you can go back to sleep if you like.” His flesh hand is sitting on her inner thigh, thumb stroking the sensitive skin, providing a thorough distraction.

“No, that’s fine,” she says, no longer remotely sleepy. She captures his hand and brings it to her mouth, putting two of his fingers into her mouth, sucking, watching him shudder. He must have showered while she was sleeping, the curls at the nape of his neck are damp and there’s no trace of her scent or of their earlier activities on him. 

Time to change that. Letting his fingers fall away, a damp trail of saliva on her chin, she pivots her body over his, straddling his lap. “I have a better idea.”

His mouth twists into a grin, and his hands settle on her waist, sweeping aside the fabric of her robe, the ties slipping open. “Do you, now? What might that be, milady?”

Without preamble, she grinds into him and leans forward to capture an earlobe between her teeth, worrying it for a moment. “Guess,” she hisses. 

He’s biting his lip, but she can hear that groan he’s suppressing. At her waist his fingers spasm, but he doesn’t react otherwise. Her hands are braced on his shoulders; she claws them and runs her fingernails over his pectorals, softening to brushes of her fingertips across his nipples. This time he can’t contain his cry.

“Guess,” she says again when she catches his gaze. Under her, she can feel the hard length of him and she rocks against it.

“But, milady, I am just a poor, innocent omega. I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Taking care not to touch her limp, oversensitive cock, he slides his hand up to brush her clit; she’s already wet for him.

“You’re a very bad omega.” He’s stroking her firmly and she whines, aching and empty. She leans in to kiss him, but he leans away, wicked smirk in place.

“But I’m your omega.” It’s his lips that claim hers, kissing with an intent to possess.

Part of her expects him to flip them over and climb on top of her, but for all he’s dominant for an omega, he’s still an omega and she loves that part of him. Her omega. Her mate. She rises on her knees, unwilling to break their kiss, with his hand staying between her legs. She tugs him off, brings his hand to lips and licks each finger clean, ensuring she has his full attention.

With one hand guiding, she sinks on to him, taking him inside her. She marvels at how he, her omega, can fill her completely, his body swollen for her needs.

They make love slowly in the dim living room, the night enclosing around them, his heat hovering in the air, but not taking hold of them just yet. When it comes, her orgasm startles her with its intensity and she cries out, her whole body jerking. He holds her through it, lips brushing the curve of her neck, whispering his love for her into her skin.

He thrusts within her a couple more times, before he too, is coming.

He’s limp in her arms for a long time afterwards and she doesn’t immediately register why, but the fact that he isn’t softening, and her body is starting to respond to that, is a difficult sign to miss. “Back to bed, beautiful,” she tells him.

But as she’s rising to lead him to their room, he grabs her hips and holds her unmoving, while he stands. She gives a cry of surprise but can’t do anything more than cling to him—as much as she’d like to slap that smug grin off his face. He’s buried inside her and she can feel too, the shifting of his muscles, the strain. Using what leverage she can, she resettles herself against him, feeling much more comfortable. She’d like to distract him properly but limits herself to contracting her muscles around his length and relaxing as they travel down the passage, enough that he stumbles, not enough to tip them over.

In their room, he gives her just enough time to shrug awkwardly out of her robe, then he is climbing on the bed and guiding her gently down. He must be using the Force because she’s not convinced that the manoeuvre would be possible otherwise.

Padmé concentrates on remaining relaxed, allowing him to situate them comfortably on their sides, facing each other, still joined. He remains motionless for a minute or two, but soon he’s thrusting again. She meets him thrust for thrust as best she can, aware of her thickening knot, sex and orgasm part of his body’s way of preparing itself for her. She doesn’t expect to orgasm, and she doesn’t; without knotting, an alpha rarely does during a rut—to have come twice in such a short space of time already has been an unanticipated pleasure.

Anakin whimpers and goes limp, his eyes squeezed closed, sweat glowing on his forehead. This time he moves from her, rolling out of reach. She doesn’t understand, until with a bit of wriggling he is on his stomach, propped on his elbows, tucking his knees under his torso.

“Anakin…” she is left slightly breathless at what he’s offering.

“Please?” he says. “I want to try.”

A stronger alpha might be able to deny their omega, pliant and wanting, but Padme cannot—not when she wants this just as badly as he does. Him, all open and ready for her, at an angle good for deep penetration, less able to struggle, less able to fight. Her instincts, the ones buried deep and primal likes that a great deal.

Strapping him in takes a little more work because he needs enough freedom to support his weight, but not so much he’ll be able to attempt to throw her free. Once she checks he’s secure, she runs her hands over his back a few times, down his sides to his hips, a little narrower than most omegas but a good size nonetheless. 

Reaching under him, she feels for his opening, it’s ready for her, their earlier actions having stretched him sufficiently, and their lovemaking having left him aroused and slick. She finds the tube of lubricant is sitting discarded near the edge of the bed, and she takes a moment to squeeze some directly on to her knot and work it into her skin. Perhaps she should have left him free long enough to do this for her?

Once she’s sure they’re both ready she presses her cock to his entrance, feeling his muscles expand and contract around her in the best possible way. She thrusts into him experimentally, making them her groan, and him jerk.

This time she doesn’t bother to restrain her rut; after the first few thrusts, she can sink all the way in to the base of her knot and so doesn’t stop, crooning at how he can take the full, thick length of her with such ease. She growls, deliberately digging her fingernails into his side and is shocked when he rears up, spine straightening, having more freedom than she’d realised possible in this position. Using the movement to her advantage, she wraps her arms around his middle to use his frame as a support, not slowing in the slightest, more excited by this display of defiance than anything else. Nonetheless, she is pleased when he drops to all fours and she can finish, plunging deep inside him—deeper than ever before—one last time, his body folding under hers as pleasure crashes through her and he keens sharply. She sinks her teeth into him, marking him, this time just below a shoulder blade and collapses on him, lapping at the bite.

She must blackout because she comes to to him calling her name. When she responds, voice hoarse, she is aware of his shaking limbs supporting both their weights. “Can you…?” he asks, tugging at the leather straps, still holding him in place. “Can you…?” If they try this position another time, they will have to be certain he can free himself. She should have checked earlier, despite her distraction.

It takes a bit of twisting, but she’s able to reach past him to find the release on the clasp and he drops, face down, her plastered to his back. After a moment, he turns his head to the side, to avoid suffocation; his breathing evens out, eyes closed, leading her to assume he’s asleep. But, without opening his eyes, he speaks. “You marked me, again.”

It’s smaller than the one on his front, but she feels a rush of pride anyway. Her mate, covered in her mark. “Sorry,” she says with a contrition she doesn’t feel.

“No, it’s good. I like wearing your mark. I’m yours.” His offers her a sated smile, rolling the muscles in his back under her cheek.

She kisses the indent her teeth have left behind, easing where his skin is red and a little raw. She didn’t break the skin, but it should hold until next time—meaning if she keeps marking him in the same spot, it will become permanent.

“All mine,” she agrees.

* * *

Anakin falls asleep quickly after that. But Padmé remains awake—as is becoming her habit at this stage during their cycle.

Every once in a while, her body gives a warm thrum, as she pumps within him, sending her seed to his womb. Theoretically, either one of them could wind up pregnant tonight, but the contraceptives should hold. Increasingly, she finds herself regretting it. They have an agreement: not until after the war. But the war continues with no end in sight and Padmé finds herself wanting more; all the while hoping it’s just a latent alpha drive to breed her omega that’s causing the stir of feelings.

Under her, Anakin stirs, “Padmé?”

He’s locked around her, and he needs his rest, so she reaches out and brushes a hand through his hair. “Go back to sleep.”

“Mmmph,” is his response, but he subsides.

She dozes a little but never settles and is relieved when her knot deflates and he releases her. She worries about disturbing him while clambering off his back, limbs heavy and clumsy, but he’s out for the count. The robe she discarded earlier is in a heap on the bedroom floor, she collects it and heads out to the living room. She should shower again, probably, to remove some of the sweat and stickiness, but she’s not uncomfortable and is enjoying the way she smells of him.

The sun is starting to rise above the horizon and she curls up on the couch as the sky goes from dark to streaks of pink and orange. A warm weight settles beside her and she moulds herself to him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” she says. In truth nothing is wrong, she’s just tired, and her hormones are seeping in under her defences.

“Once more, I think,” he tells her, as if his biology is the problem. He presses his lips to hair. “But I can find my suppressants, if you need?” This late in a heat cycle it will be brutal on his system, potentially laying him out for days.

She turns in his arms. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She kisses him. “I want to be with you.” She kisses him, this time long and slow. “It is a privilege to share your heat with you, my omega.”

“My alpha,” he mumbles into her lips, sliding a hand into her robe to cup a breast.

Her stomach chooses that moment to let out a grumble, and she cringes. “Sorry.”

“Have you eaten?”

“No.” She hadn’t felt like much of anything when she’d first woken, but now she really is starving.

“Wait here.”

“Which one of us is the alpha?” she calls after him as he goes about organising her a plate of food to eat.

“The one who forgot to feed herself,” he responds with gentle mocking. Omegas are noted for their nurturing, particularly when it comes to their young, but it’s their alpha mates who are meant to tend to them. Yet, his willingness to see to her needs at such a time is touching. He returns quickly, and they sit quietly while she eats, managing to convince him to take a few bites as well.

She takes her time, lingering a little, feeling the air grow heavy with pheromones and her body start to prepare. Theoretically, omegas can require knotting up to five times in one heat cycle, but Anakin’s heats have only taken them through three, for which she is profoundly grateful.

Anakin, not one for enforced quietness or calm, has brushed the shoulder of her robe aside and is nibbling on her neck, his hand has slid beneath the fabric and is just resting on her stomach, fingers brushing skin-tingling patterns. “I love you,” he murmurs against the shell of her ear.

“Oh, Ani, I love you, too.” She turns her head to tug him in for a kiss. Sometimes she thinks the amount of love she has for him is impossible—how can one person love another this much?—and she wishes she could blame it on the hormones coursing through the pair of them. The truth is, though, that she feels the same when there is no rut, no heat, to blame.

After a long, slow moment, he pulls just far enough to study her face. “Are you sure you want to continue?”

Part of her would love to crawl into bed, wrap herself around him and sleep for an entire week. But he is her omega and he needs her and she needs to complete her rut; it’s like an itch under her skin that won’t be banished until the heat dies from his body and she’s no longer tied to his pheromones.

Firmly, she takes the hand in her robe and guides it to where she’s hard and ready. “Yes, I want to continue.” She lowers her voice, finding a vocal range designed to appeal to her mate. “I want you, omega.”

She watches him swallow, then lick his lips. His hand slides along her length. “Good.”

And if she lets him continue, this will not end the way he wants it to. Detaching herself, she stands and offers him her hand. “Come to bed.”

He follows her down the corridor like a tame lamb, obeying her commands to lie back and hold his hands up for the restraints allowing her to clip them into place without issue. If it wasn’t for the wicked smirk hovering on his lips, she’d think he’d slipped into heat fever. As it is, she wants to rut him until he is loose and boneless and completely under her power.

Splayed out on her bed, naked and smug, he makes quite the picture, so she stops a small distance away, simply to admire. Under her examination, he spreads his legs a little further to show her the gleaming moisture gathering there. In response, she slips out of her robe, proudly displaying her cock, knot full and ready. Padmé might not have the frame of a typical alpha, but she makes up for it with the length and girth of her cock. She supposes she could look ridiculous, but the way his eyes widen and his lips part, she thinks she must look as powerful as she feels. He tugs on the straps, a brief look of annoyance crossing his face when he encounters resistance. 

Padmé comes at him from the foot of the bed, kneeling near his feet, grasping his ankles and pressing them into the mattress. “No moving,” she says, instincts overwhelming her, all traces of exhaustion gone.

His hands stop their relentless twisting, but she can see traces of amusement hovering around his mouth and eyes. “Yes, alpha.”

He’s ready for her, she thinks, but she’s not ready for him. She can’t see the lubricant anywhere and she’s just about to get off the bed and search for it, when it floats up from between the bed and nightstand to hover in front of her, Anakin smirking.

She growls and snatches the tube out of mid-air. It’s short work to prepare herself, and she is no longer concerned about him. After the night they’ve just had, he should be ready for her, so with no hesitation she positions herself over him and pushes herself in, using his body as a climbing frame, bracing herself with her hands on either side of him.

There is a snap as Anakin yanks the restraints taut, he’s curved his spine almost into sitting position. The height difference between them makes the angle difficult but they manage to meet in a kiss, which breaks as she starts to move, causing them both to groan. He flops backwards, his hands twisting to grasp the straps holding him in place and using them for leverage.

Padmé is in no hurry. Despite her need to rut, to knot, to _possess_ she takes her time with long strokes that run deep. She thrusts to the base of her knot and out, nearly to her tip. His eyelids flutter, her beautiful mate. She keeps the rhythm as steady as she can, controlling the last of her rut, feeling herself tighten, her breath hitching.

The actual moment catches her by surprise. Anakin’s hips lift, either to meet her or in a misguided attempt to throw her off and the angle changes, her knot sinking past any resistance to lock inside him. He yanks hard on his straps and Padmé tumbles forward on to his chest, a universe exploding into being behind her eyes, her body its very own supernova.

She doesn’t mark him, not this time, just basks in the way he surrounds her and his scent clogs her every sense. After a heartbeat or two, there are hands brushing her hair from her face and dragging the covers over them. Padmé drifts off.

* * *

She wakes alone.

By the light streaming through her windows, it’s late morning. She sits up, slowly. Her body is aching and empty, the last traces of her rut having burned themselves out. The air purifiers have done their job, and there’s no lingering trace of their coupling, except for the sheets which desperately need to be changed.

Anakin is nowhere to be seen and she panics a little. It’s late, maybe he’s returned to the Temple—someone will be missing him—but to go without saying goodbye… she should have checked on him. If nothing else she should have woken when her knot went down…

He appears in the door, beaming, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Good morning.”

“Ani, you’re here!” She doesn’t mean to say the words, not out loud.

“Where else would I be?”

She just looks at him, trying to wordlessly communicate her disbelief at his response. If he had didn’t have anywhere else to be, their marriage would not be a secret.

“No-one is going to notice. Obi-Wan is off-world.” Padmé is reasonably certain that to Anakin the Jedi consisted of Obi-Wan and then everyone else, especially since Ahsoka’s leaving.

“And if they do?”

He shrugs, coming to perch beside her on the bed. “I’ll just tell them the truth: I was in heat and I found a partner.” Off her raised eyebrow, he shrugs again. “I just won’t tell them who. They really won’t ask questions. Come on, your bath is ready, and I’d like some sleep before they ship me out.”

Padmé’s stomach churns unpleasantly, but she follows him out of the room and to the bathroom. “You’re leaving—today?” Bad enough that their time is this brief, but to have spent most of it in a rut makes her feel almost as if he’s her whore. She’s always promised herself that she’d never use him like that.

He stops in the door to the bathroom, his brow furrowing, mouth tugging down. “Likely for a while. Sorry.”

She chews that thought over for a moment. More and more her husband is stolen from her by the war, the brief moments they snatch seem to be decreasing while the time between them is increasing. She looks down for a moment, and then back at him, placing her hands on his chest. “You can make it up to me by joining me in the bath.”

He beams at her. “Done.”

In the water, she sits between his legs with her back to his chest, allowing the heat to soothe her aching muscles. She’s grateful, too, that the emotional rollercoaster that her rut brings seems to have slowed, leaving her relaxed with only a faint, emptiness.

Anakin has one hand settled flat across her stomach, but whether it’s coincidence or a reflection of her own desires, Padmé isn’t certain. His prosthetic is resting on her upper thigh, noticeably different from his flesh hand, but not unpleasant.

“Ani?”

“Hmm?” he sounds sleepy but when she tilts her head she can see his eyes are clear and alert. She settles back, not entirely convinced she wants to have this conversation face to face. Sometimes, for a politician, she feels like a coward.

“Have you thought any more about children?” In her chest, her heart flutters from nerves.

He kisses the curve of her neck. “Not since the last time we talked about it. Why? Have you changed your mind?” There’s a frisson of nerves in his tone, and she carefully places her hands over his. Her omega. Her husband.

“No. It is not time to have a baby. I was just wondering if you’d ever thought about which one of us would be pregnant.”

Behind her his weight shifts. “Not really.”

“Really?” she twists to see if she can better read his expression, he looks back at her quizzically.

“Padmé,” his tone, however, is bordering on exasperated, “I’m an omega. Everyone expects me to be pregnant. Half the Jedi healers seemed surprised when I wasn’t a father at sixteen. You’re the first person I’ve ever met who doesn’t see it as inevitable.” His lips graze her temple. “I love you for it, but I spend a lot of time _not_ thinking about being pregnant.”

Carefully, she sits up and turns until she’s kneeling in front of him. It isn’t comfortable, or stable, but she can see his face. “Do you want to be the one who carries our children?”

He huffs. “Not especially.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

She pokes him on the chest, causing him to steady her when the movement threatens to send her toppling sideways. “I resent the implication that I am any less capable of bearing children than you.” She wriggles back to her original position. “I’ll be the one who gets pregnant.” He wraps his arms around her waist and she snuggles against his chest. “Or we can take turns. Ani?”

“Yeah?”

“What would have happened if you had gotten pregnant?” Before her, she means.

His chest rises and falls in a sigh, good cheer vanishing, his arms tightening. “They would have ended up in the creche or an orphanage. I would be able to see them, but not raise them. Or I could have left the Order. Padmé…”

“I’m not asking, Ani. Not today.” One day, though, when they do decide to have children, they will have to have that conversation. 

With the galaxy in its current state, it’s hard to picture anything ever changing. At the same time, she’d can’t help but wish for a reality where she can have him with her for more than brief snatches of time here and here, where she can introduce him to her family, her friends, as her husband. A reality where they can have children together, children that may or may not be Force sensitive.

Which is another bridge they will have to cross in this uncertain world of theirs.

“Not today,” he agrees.

“But this water _is_ getting cold.” She stands and steps out of the bath, leaning in to kiss him. He kisses her back, teasing her lips apart and humming when she allows him entrance. The angle is less than ideal thus doesn’t last long, but she’s feeling better by the time she straightens and offers him her hand.

They dry themselves off, neither of them speaking much, their own thoughts churning.

But once they’re done, he takes her in his arms. She doesn’t resist, not worrying about which of them is the alpha and which is the omega, just liking the fact there is enough of him to curl into. “I love you.”

“I love you.” He has a towel around his waist and she is completely nude. The air conditioning is still turned on high, with them both rapidly returning to their normal body temperatures, so she buries herself further into his arms.

“Food or a nap?” he asks, beginning to shiver.

She is exhausted, but food would probably be a wise idea and he is probably hungry with the heat burned from his system. “How about you go back to bed, and I’ll find us food?” It’s about time she started tending to her omega properly.

He kisses her. “I like that plan.”

By the time she arrives in the bedroom, the heating has been turned on and Anakin’s sitting in the bed, dressed in sleep clothes. He smiles as she lays the tray on the bed beside him and hunts out her own nightgown. The bedding has clearly been changed—probably the cleaning droids, at the behest of Threepio—and she slides in next to her husband as he rearranges the tray for better access.

“How much of your day did I interrupt?” he asks after several minutes of quiet eating. He doesn’t sound apologetic or concerned. Smug, mostly.

She elbows him in the side, rattling the dishes on the tray. “Not much.” Dormé or one of the others would have cancelled the meetings she had today. “The big thing will be apologising to the half a dozen or so people I offended yesterday. You know,” she gestures vaguely with a crust of bread, “I didn’t think sympathetic rut would have set in, yet.”

“I arrived on the planet yesterday morning and this is our fifth shared heat,” he says by way of explanation. He kisses her temple. “Don’t worry, it’ll get worse,” he says, tone dry. Eventually, she’ll start to go into a rut as soon as he goes into heat, no matter how far apart they are. Rut suppressants exist, for all their dubious viability; unlike heat suppressant, though, they’re not a necessity.

“I don’t count the first two.” Prefers not to think about them at all.

He pauses in the act of putting away a tremendous amount of food to throw a sceptical look in her direction. “They happened.” Well, he would know.

Leaning on his shoulder, she doesn’t respond, starting to feel drowsy. She’s been fed, she has her mate, all trace of her rut has faded, she’s comfortable so she lets her eyes drift shut.

She stirs when she becomes aware of him resettling her to a more horizontal position. “Ani? Don’t go without saying goodbye.”

He kisses her gently, and she can feel him smiling. “Promise.”

With that she lets herself drop off to sleep.


End file.
